


Wait, What?

by a_nonny_moose



Category: Markiplier Egos
Genre: Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 18:10:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13393410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: "Warfstache and Darkiplier are dead." -Fischfuck, 2018





	Wait, What?

“ _What_ did he say?”  


“That he’s going to kill us.”  


Dark leaned back in his chair, watching Wilford pace restlessly across the floor of his office. “He’s not going to kill us,” Dark growled, aura starting to flicker. “He can’t.”

“Who are you trying to convince?” Wilford’s gun was in his hand, glowering at Dark across his desk. “He can’t _kill_  us--” he raised the gun to his temple, the click of an empty chamber, “--but he can stop giving us videos. He can _fight back_.”  


“Put the gun down, Wilford.” Dark pushed himself up, knuckles whitened around his pen. Wilford didn’t flinch, finger tightening on the trigger again. 

“ _Will_.” Dark’s voice carried a hint of persuasion, his power drifting through the air. The pen in his hand, sleek and dark and tipped with silver, clattered to the floor. “Put it down.”  


Dark waited until Wilford had lowered the gun again, eyes boring into his, before he spoke again in an undertone. “You think I don’t know that? You think that he’s never fought me before?”

“Not like this,” Wilford shot back, bitter. “Not now that he knows _what we are_.”  


“Listen to yourself,” Dark sneered, aura beginning to fracture the air around him, shell cracking. “Paranoid much?”  


Wilford looked Dark dead in the eye, and it felt for a moment as if he was looking into a cracked, distorted mirror. “Are you _not_ worried, Darkipoo?” His tone dripped sarcasm, burnt sugar, a knife in a lover’s back.

“I have more sense to go running about like a chicken with it’s head cut off.” Dark smoothed the front of his suit, an imperceptible tremor making its way from his hands to the buzzing in the air.   


A laugh that was nearly a sob, dropping his hands helplessly to his sides. “If-- if--”

“There are no ‘if’s here.”   


“Fine. He’s going to kill us both and there’s nothing we can do about it. For sure. No ‘if.’ Happy?”  


Dark did his best not to look shocked at Wilford’s expression, a haggard killer looking back at him. “I have a plan. I always have a plan.”

Wilford took some reassurance in that, in Dark’s straight back and squared shoulders, as unfamiliar as it was. If he was honest, Wilford missed the old Dark, the one that held himself with uneasy power and a smirk, the time where reassurance was more the glint of a knife than folded hands. 

Dark looked Wilford up and down, violent pink in every sense of the word. More measured, but the same. He turned away for a moment as Wilford paced, weighing his words. They were polar opposites, groomed to fit the same niche at the head of the table. Even now, they faced each other with the twitching fingers of a shared past, buried too deep. 

“We won’t die.”  


“The fans would never let us.”  


Sometimes, the lines blurred, and it was difficult to tell which one of them was speaking; or if it even was only one of them, and not two voices in perfect unison. 

“Because they care.”  



End file.
